


A Matter of Perspective

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little story bracketing the hiatus in which there is mild angst and snuggling and Holmes comes to terms with the fact that he does indeed have a sex drive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the brilliant and lovely charlotteyonge, who yet again helped me figure out the thread in the story. As always, my dear, you were helpful and encouraging and dead right!

It started on the staircase at Baker Street. Watson had invited Miss Morstan to tea: one of his attempts to foster intimacy between his fiancée and his friend. Holmes was civil to the woman, would have been even without the hard stares he could feel from Watson’s direction, but the conversation was stilted.

When Watson escorted Miss Morstan to the front door, he was absent from the sitting room so very long that Holmes went to find him. Halfway down the stairs, Holmes caught sight of the couple in the entry, their figures so close as to make only one shape in the shadows. They were locked in a passionate embrace, Watson crushing her slim body to his, one hand holding her head while the other groped at her skirts.

It was shocking. The lustful, earthy creature Holmes glimpsed that night was not the Watson he knew. Watson was a gentleman, an intelligent, rational person—not one to give himself over to base instinct. Holmes stood frozen on the step, unable to tear his gaze away.

“Too long,” Watson growled into the lace at Miss Morstan’s throat. “No matter how short our engagement, it is far, far too long.”

Her answer was a breathy laugh. She gave Watson one final kiss before turning to the door. Holmes silently crept away and hid himself in his room, where he sat awake most of the night.

Holmes could not fight this thing which, he was forced to recognise, was part of Watson’s nature. His friend had become a stranger. The instinct to flee was strong and, in the end, irresistible. The discovery of Moriarty’s intricate web offered an appealing challenge, but even more alluring was the hope that in destroying the villain, Holmes could bring about his own escape as well.

*****

Three years later, they sat together on the rug in front of the fire: Holmes returned from the dead and Watson mostly recovered from his initial shock. Holmes poured glass after glass of whiskey and regaled Watson with tales of his travels. He was careful to relate only the excitement and the intrigue, with a few side notes highlighting his own cleverness. He omitted any discussion of the aching loneliness he had felt, and the very real fear.

He found he could not tear his eyes from Watson’s face. The unfamiliar incarnation lurking in the shadows of the entry must have been a figment of Holmes’ imagination, for here was good old Watson. There was nothing frightening or alien about him.

As always, Watson listened with rapt concentration, his eyes shining in the firelight. Holmes felt himself grow light-headed, more from Watson’s attention than the liquor, though the whiskey had certainly loosened his limbs. He shook his head a bit to clear it.

The gesture did not escape Watson’s notice, and his eyes narrowed in concern. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you drunk.”

“What nonsense,” Holmes said, turning to where Watson was leaning against the sofa.

“No, truly, I haven’t. Intoxicated, perhaps, but not simply with spirits.”

“You needn’t cast your disapproving looks upon me, my dear Watson,” Holmes answered. It was a pleasure to feel those last three words, so long linked in his mind, roll off his tongue. “I gave up indulgence in such vices during my time abroad.”

Watson’s surprise was plain on his face. It was followed by an earnest and affectionate smile that did more to make Holmes feel welcomed home than any amount of Mrs. Hudson’s fussing. Holmes lifted the decanter, filled both tumblers, and crawled over to sit next to Watson.

“It was necessary to be always alert,” Holmes explained, handing Watson his glass. “I found I did not miss it nearly as much as one might think.” This was not entirely true, as there were countless nights where Holmes had been desperate for the oblivion of a chemically induced slumber, but it had been a trifling inconvenience in comparison with Watson’s absence.

Holmes pressed close to Watson’s side. He was indeed inebriated but pretended to be more affected than he truly was so that he might have the reassurance of Watson’s solid warmth next to him.

Watson laughed. “You have more gray, I see.”

Holmes immediately conjured a witty reply and was about to offer it when Watson lifted his hand to push Holmes’ head against his shoulder, pressing his cheek against the fine wool of his waistcoat. Holmes could not speak for several long moments.

Fear gripped his heart, and understanding dawned: here was the thing that had so terrified him three years before—it was not Watson that had become so strange and foreign that night in the entry, but Holmes himself.

He had been so certain that his disapproval of Watson’s engagement was engendered only by his disgust for the institution of marriage and the sloppy emotions associated with it, but his true reaction when confronted with first-hand evidence of Watson’s formerly hidden passionate nature was so much more primal than that: an intensity of emotion he could not name, explain, or control. He was experiencing it again, the same fierce, possessive longing. It was a terrible feeling, desperate and hungry. Holmes fought to contain it.

He collapsed against Watson’s chest, concealing his confusion with more feigned drunkenness. He fell half onto Watson’s lap and settled himself there, his head on Watson’s thigh.

Watson laughed again and threaded his fingers into Holmes’ hair. “It’s more gray than dark at the temples.”

“Certainly not,” Holmes blurted out. “Silver, perhaps. I’m told it’s very distinguished.”

Holmes dared a glance up at Watson, who was smiling down at him fondly. Holmes screwed his eyes closed.

“At least I’ve retained my full head of hair,” he said with affected lightness. “I’m not certain the years have been as kind to your hairline, which seems to have receded alarmingly.”

Watson let out a huff in protest at the teasing, and his hand tightened in Holmes’ hair, tugging painfully for a moment. Then he chuckled and loosened his grip, but he did not withdraw his hand.

In the familiar pattern of their banter, Holmes’ feeling of dread subsided. It was only to be expected that he should be put off balance at returning home after so long, but Holmes would not let it overwhelm him. He reminded himself that Watson’s touch should be a comfort, not something to flinch away from. Watson was quiet, taking infrequent sips from his glass and staring into the flames. His palm was warm against Holmes’ scalp.

Holmes would have thought it impossible, but the whiskey and the fire and his own exhaustion conspired to lure him into a doze. He awoke with Watson’s fingers still twined in his hair and Watson’s voice in his ear, urging him to rise and go to bed. They pulled themselves up off the floor and stumbled out of the room supporting each other, made clumsy by sleep and alcohol.

At Holmes’ bedroom door, they stopped, and Watson gripped Holmes’ arms tightly, staring into his face. His eyes were shadowed. The throbbing of Holmes’ heart made it impossible to think. Watson needed something from him—that much was clear, but Holmes was afraid to think on what it might be. The desperate feeling threatened to rise again in his chest.

Holmes knew he should send Watson away but could not bear the prospect. Instead, he took a step back, pulling Watson with him. He said simply, “Come, Watson.” And Watson obeyed, but Holmes could see his own fear reflected in Watson’s face.

Holmes sat to remove his boots and was relieved to feel the movement of the mattress when Watson sat on the other side of the bed to do the same. Holmes slid between the sheets fully clothed, then held up the bedclothes for Watson to climb in next to him. Watson lay stiffly at the far edge of the bed, facing Holmes but not looking at him. Holmes doused the light and tried to settle in for sleep, but Watson was restless, shifting and fidgeting in a manner most unlike him.

“Watson.”

He did not answer.

“Watson, please.”

Finally, Watson slipped his hand into Holmes’ and pressed his face against his shoulder. Holmes could hear his breathing, irregular and labored. Watson was not quite sobbing and no tears dampened Holmes’ shirt, but his distress was heartrending.

Holmes wrapped his fingers more tightly around Watson’s and whispered, “Can you forgive me?”

The silence that followed was agonizing.

“No.”

The word seemed to scrape its way out of Watson’s throat, but Watson did not move away. Holmes pulled Watson’s hand to his chest, then tentatively raised his other hand to touch Watson’s arm, sliding his fingers inside the open sleeve.

Holmes lay awake, listening as Watson’s breathing quieted and then grew into a light snore.

Hours passed, and Holmes did not sleep. He was still for so very long that his body began to complain. He tried to shift his position without waking Watson but after a very few movements felt Watson’s arm tighten around his torso in panic.

Then Watson drew away, obviously embarrassed to have clutched at Holmes in such a manner. Holmes wanted to pull Watson close again but could not bring himself to reach out.

“I was afraid it was all some terrible dream,” Watson said.

Holmes could not tell what would have made the dream terrible: the fact that he had been gone, or the fact that he had come back.

*****

“Watson, where on earth have you been?”

“I’ve been packing,” Watson answered. “I’ll never know how I acquired so many books.”

To avoid uttering another petulant complaint, Holmes was silent. For the last several days, Watson had been largely absent from Baker Street. The preparations for the move were taking far too much time, in Holmes’ opinion. They had never discussed Watson coming back to live with Holmes, but of course it had been assumed by all parties that he would. It was the logical thing to do, as Watson had spent the vast majority of his time there since Holmes’ return almost two months before.

Everything was almost as it had been, with companionable evenings in the sitting room and the pleasure of working cases together day to day. Holmes felt secure, certain that the comforts of home had forever banished the desperate, unnatural emotions that had plagued him when he had first returned. Watson seemed equally contented with their renewed partnership and bohemian lifestyle; the solitude of a respectable widower had not suited him. 

Watson hung up his hat and coat while Holmes waited impatiently. However, rather than joining him by the fire, Watson quietly wished him a good night and turned back to the landing.

Holmes jumped up from his seat and spun around to stare. “It’s too early to retire, surely. I thought we would have supper together.” He gestured to the covered dishes Mrs. Hudson had left on the table.

Watson sighed. “I’m done in, and I must be up early for the movers tomorrow.”

Holmes’ irritation mounted. Watson was forever nagging him to eat properly, yet he was planning on going to bed without consuming even a few mouthfuls?

“Watson—” Holmes stopped when he saw Watson’s expression.

The smile Watson sent in Holmes’ direction was irritating: fond, but amused. Holmes did not care to be patronized. He threw himself into his chair and stared into the fire, but his annoyance faded when Watson approached and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I am sorry, Holmes,” he said soothingly. “After tomorrow I will be completely at your disposal once again. Only let me feel settled.” Then he leaned down and pressed his forehead against Holmes’ temple.

It happened very slowly. There was only a tender whisper: “Good night, my dear,” and then the brush of Watson’s moustache on Holmes’ brow, just at his hairline.

Holmes was stunned. He was only vaguely aware of Watson’s retreating footsteps, and he sat frozen in his chair, uncertain of how to behave.

He had thought himself past all crisis. He had not examined the fact that Watson had spent every night in his bed. They slept chastely. Indeed, they barely touched: only the very first night did Holmes have the comfort of Watson’s arms around him.

When they were together, Holmes did not give their sleeping arrangements a moment’s thought. Even when he was alone, as he had been all too often recently because of Watson’s packing, only occasionally did uncertainty threaten, and it was easily pushed aside.

Now Watson had, with one small kiss, pushed Holmes over the edge. No longer could Holmes pretend he was unaware of their path. He had fallen off that treacherous precipice, fully expecting to plunge to his death, only to find instead that he had landed, perfectly safe and sound, on a previously unnoticed but reassuringly solid ledge only a few feet below. Very little was different. It merely meant seeing the world from a slightly altered perspective.

It seemed there was nothing to be done. After several minutes of staring into the fire, wondering at how very anticlimactic it all was, he pulled himself out of his chair.

After three years of constant vigilance, sleeping fully clothed to be ready to flee at a moment’s notice, a few weeks had not been sufficient to inure him to the luxury of preparing purposefully for bed: turning down the lamps, cleaning his teeth, donning a nightgown, and sliding into bed. The bedclothes were already warmed by Watson’s body.

Watson did not completely awaken, but he shifted until his back was pressed against Holmes’ chest. Holmes could smell the soap Watson had used to wash his face and the lingering scent of tobacco in his hair. Watson’s hips were flush against Holmes’ groin—exciting and alarming both. Before Holmes could flee, Watson stirred and spoke.

“Holmes,” Watson murmured. “Did you intend to post that letter?”

Holmes wondered whether Watson might be dreaming. He rested his shaking hand on Watson’s side, needing an anchor. “I beg your pardon?”

“There was an envelope on the mantel. I sent it with the rest of the post this morning before I thought to ask you about it.”

“Yes, I…” Holmes tried to calm his arousal by sheer force of will. He could not quite understand why Watson was raising this subject now, of all times, when Holmes had lost the minimal comfort of being in control of his own person.

“Good. I assumed you could track it down if you had not intended for it be sent, but I wanted to let you know as soon as possible.” Watson interrupted himself with a yawn. “Only there was so much to be done today, and then I was so bloody tired when I came home tonight. I must have forgotten all about it.”

Holmes did not answer, still caught between the mundane conversation and the pounding of his heart, the warmth of Watson’s ribcage under his hand.

“Good night then,” Watson said. He moved then, turning in the bed to face Holmes, pulling the blankets up around their ears and wrapping his arm around Holmes’ waist. Holmes lay stiffly for several minutes until he forced himself to relax. There was truly nothing startling in this simple affection, not when it came from Watson. On the contrary, it was rather pleasant.

Holmes had to assume such things came more naturally to Watson but even so found his apparent ease with this new intimacy surprising. Of course, he had been married before, giving him experience with blending physical affection with the quotidian. For a moment Holmes’ mind rebelled at the comparison. He and Watson were not married, after all.

But Holmes knew that marriage was not diamond rings and orange blossoms or even passionate farewell kisses. Those were the trappings of courtship, and it was rather too late for that. Marriage was surely more about navigating the everyday details of life while still retaining some affection for one’s partner. With the miracle of Watson’s patient nature, they had achieved such a state of domestic bliss long ago.

Even the slightest awareness of his attraction to Watson had formerly sent Holmes into a ridiculous state, but the rather enthusiastic reaction of his body moments ago hinted that he might find physical relations more pleasurable than he had ever dreamed possible. Not to mention that at their current rate of progress—more than seven weeks gone before a single and, it must be said, rather innocent kiss on the forehead—it would be quite some time before Holmes might have cause to feel his lack of experience with such matters.

So there was no grand declaration, no mad moment of passion unleashed. Instead Holmes brushed his teeth, Watson asked about the post, and they lay together under the bedclothes, so close that each breath was shared between them.

The End


End file.
